Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Large squid, medium left. Big ditch! That’s good. Oh, no, a helpless three-legged javelina. Oh, my God! No, not really… Oh, my God! All stop, full reverse. Now full ahead. Excellent. Let’s get out of here! Big ditch. Okay, okay… big squid!”

Fortunately, the vehicle soon came across a rutted dirt road that seemed to lead to some sort of small town or nasty outpost. It looked like something out of a spaghetti Western film set, only more real and dangerous.

“That’s it,” Avery yelled to Fire Team Leader Charlie. “Make for the town.” The Fire Team Leader complied, and soon they backed into the village, scattering stray dogs and chickens along the way.

This was the kind of town that people didn’t want to end up in, unless they were thieves, cutthroats, or murders. That said, even cutthroats avoided this place, as knives were considered as somewhat useless, if not gauche. That was, if the thieves didn’t steal them first. No, guns and murder did the talking here. It was also known as the home of the famous lucha libre wrestler “El Coyote.” He was renowned for his ability to break his opponents with a leaping maneuver off the top rope. It was known as the “Flying Burrito.” His high-flying assault from the corner turnbuckle consisted of landing on his foe with his back as he would scream, “I kill you dead!” His unfortunate competitors would subsequently grab their severely severed spleens in pain as he ripped off their colorful masks and paraded around the ring with them, swinging them above his head. It drove the fans wild. His mask was bright gold with bloody fangs painted near the opening for his mouth, and it never came off once in his entire career. It was part of the reason he was so revered in this part of Mexico. He retired undefeated, except for two matches in which he owed the promoter more money than his winning purse would cover. Fortunately for the Coyote, Mexican professional wrestling statistics are flexible at best. Everyone in town considered him to have never met his better or even come close to losing a match. In his retirement, the still-imposing barrel-chested man now ran a sort of bar, hotel, brothel, nightclub, strip joint in this small village. But really, it was mainly a brothel. The Coyote like the word brothel a lot. It sounded way better than whorehouse. He thought it sounded kind of French, kind of classy. He hung Impressionist art reproductions on the wall, in velvet, of course, so in case someone threw a beer bottle, it wouldn’t shatter. Plus, the velvet paintings soaked up the booze. At the end of the night, he would wring out the artwork into a glass and give away the gnarly, ink-stained liquid as a free shot known as the “The Sweat of Monet.”

“Pull over,” Avery said. The mud and dust covered bus ground to a halt, backward, of course.

“Someone get Private Tango off my roof,” the General ordered.

Around them, old stone buildings surrounded an open square with a small, communal well. The pockmarked edifices were whitewashed but dingy. People walked by and seemed to not look, but they really did. It was hard not to notice the raggedy band of misfits that climbed off the bus. Even the donkeys noticed.

“Look at the size of the dinger on that one…” Fire Team Leader Alpha slapped Private Foxtrot across the back of his head. “I’m just saying, Team Leader, that’s some donkey.” The private rubbed his head.

“Fire Team Leader Charlie,” the General announced, “find someone to fix this contraption.”

“Why me?”

“You found it, you fix it. Pronto!”

“Roger that, General.” The Fire Team Leader looked around the village, wiped his face, and set out.

“We need disguises,” Avery suggested. “Have the men follow me.” Soon the crew was outfitted with large, colorful sombreros. Avery’s was yellow, with tiger stripes. A pudgy man in a yellow tracksuit leading a group of men in camouflage fatigues wearing brightly colored sombreros exited the small general store, trying to act inconspicuous.

“Walk Mexican,” Avery said as he dragged his feet and looked down. The rest of the men followed suit. A cloud of dust lifted behind the band of men as they made their way across the street. The most prominent building on the block had a large neon sign proclaiming it as the Coyote’s Lair. Avery noticed the flickering sign. Coyote , he thought. Promising. He headed for it.

“Welcome!” El Coyote, said ushering the men inside. “Right this way, my friends.” The former wrestler pulled aside a scarlet-colored velvet rope that kept back no one. The men followed El Coyote inside — all except Ziggy, whose attention was captured by something further down the street. “Lupe, a table up front!” The round woman at the bar ignored him. “Lupe!” She walked away. “Don’t mind her,” El Coyote said. “Sit wherever you like. The next show starts any minute now.”

The men of the militia ambled up to a long table in front of the main stage. The place was empty except for a couple of dancers. “Don’t worry.” El Coyote wiped down the table with a greasy rag. “You’re just in time. The crowd starts to come in around sundown. Best to get here early. What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”

“Mountain Dew,” said Avery.

“Lupe, one tequila!”

“No, Mountain Dew, please.”

“Yes, tequila. Is very good.”

“Beer, cold,” said the General. The rest of the men nodded.

“Lupe, tequila and cerveza all around.” El Coyote walked toward the bar. Scantily clad women from the brothel’s rooms upstairs began to filter down the staircase into the club to check out what sort of fresh meat had just wandered in. Private Zulu’s jaw dropped. He’d only heard of places like this, and what he’d heard about them was very naughty. An overweight stripper wearing a leather bikini sauntered over and spun around in front of Private Zulu. Grabbing the back of his head, she shoved his face into her cleavage and violently shook her chest, grinding the skinny private’s face into the leather bikini top. Letting him go, she blew the frazzled private a kiss over her shoulder.

“She smelled nice,” Private Zulu said.

“What?” Private Foxtrot watched the stripper saunter away.

“Kind of like the seats inside a new truck.”

“Looked like forty miles of bad road to me. How about that one over there?” Private Foxtrot pointed.

“Naw,” Private Zulu said, “she’s two axe handles across the ass.”

“Good point. What about her?”

“You know, she’s a bit old for me.”

“Old? There ain’t nothing but old in this place.”

“Yeah, I just like a lady’s skin to fit a bit tighter.”

“She does droop in places that shouldn’t, but Daddy used to always say, ‘It’s better to have ten ones than one ten.’”

“Your daddy also tried to teach a raccoon to drive a tractor.”

“Yep, drove it right through the side of the barn…hold the phone, partner. What about that one?” Private Foxtrot pointed at the most beautiful girl in the bar. Dark hair, voluptuous curves, and a big pistol strapped to her hip. She was the bomb, and everyone knew it, especially her.

“Now you’re talking.”

“Naw, she’s out of your league.”

“What do you mean?” Zulu asked.

“I mean that she must cost a fortune. Look at those…”

“I got money!”

“How much?”

“Couple of bucks, plus a few old pesos I found lying ’round the HQ.”

“You’re out of luck, buddy,” Private Foxtrot said as he watched the gorgeous woman curl herself around the pole on the main stage. “The good news is you’ve got enough money to buy me something to eat.”

“We done ate today already. How can you be hungry again?”